


I Wanna Be a Cowboy, Babey

by gunderlinde (patchworkpoet)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Family, Fluff, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-10-27 04:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17759735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchworkpoet/pseuds/gunderlinde
Summary: A series of imagines and requests for Red Dead Redemption 2. Requests closed!





	1. Little Wolf (Young! Van Der Linde Gang)

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by some of my friends, kinda? Young!Arthur gets himself into trouble and Young!Dutch and Young!Hosea have to get him out of it. Featuring that sweet, sweet, Vandermatthews content.

This wasn't the first time Arthur had found himself running headfirst into trouble and he somehow doubted it would be the last.

He had ridden into town early before Dutch or Hosea could bother him about the dangers of going off on his own. If he was old enough to shoot people, then he was old enough to do his own damn shopping. The town was small, barely big enough to call a town even, but it had a bar and a store and that's all Arthur had been after. He dismounted outside the store first, not bothering to hitch his horse, and started to make his way into the shop.

That's when it all went downhill.

He was barely halfway through the door when a woman leaning on the edge of the building said: “Um, sir, is that your horse?” 

He turned around and lo and behold, it was his horse, and she was being ridden out of town by someone that wasn't Arthur.

_ Goddammit. _

He cursed under his breath and sprinted off after them, pulling his gun and firing. The thief was too far ahead for any shots to hit, though, and as he turned a corner around the bottom of a plateau, he been damn near sure he'd just lost his horse.  _ Dutch is gonna kill me,  _ he thought. He followed anyway, thinking he might be able to see where the fella was heading, if anything.

He turned the corner of the plateau and found the thief had stopped or rather had been stopped by a group of four armed bandits.

“You gotta pay the toll, fella!” One of the men said, cocking his shotgun and pointing it at the thief.

_ Well, would ya look at that... The thief's gettin’ robbed! _

Arthur smiled at the scene cockily until he heard a voice say, “Get out of here, kid, this don't concern you!” and suddenly two of the four men had their eyes and guns trained on him. 

_ Aw, hell. _

“It concerns my damn horse,” Arthur says, right before a gunshot rings out and the horse thief falls to the ground, dead. 

Arthur manages to hit two of the bandits before they start firing on him. He rushes to try and find cover, but there's nothing around except the side of the plateau which doesn't seem like it'd help much. He takes a gamble and sprints toward his horse instead, who, unfortunately, had startled and ran in the opposite direction when the fight began. He shoots one more by the time he gets to his horse, quickly turning her around to head back to camp, and that's when he's strung up by a lasso and pulled off his horse. As he struggles on the ground he sees four more men had come up behind him. Of course they had back-up. He manages to kick one of the bandits in the balls as they approach, but the others quickly hogtie and gag him, throwing his hat aside and putting a sack over his head so he couldn't see where they were going. He feels the wind get knocked out of him as they throw him onto the back of a horse and ride off. 

 

***

 

He's not sure where they're taking him, being unfamiliar with the area, but judging by the way the ride gets rockier and more unsteady the further they go, he thinks it's somewhere further North, heading into the mountains. He tests the bonds a couple of times, but they hold tight and all he gets for his trouble is a whack to the head. He's pissed as hell at how this whole day has turned out, but not nearly as angry as he imagines Dutch and Hosea will be when they find out.

_ They don't even know where I am. I shoulda told them where I was off to. Arthur Morgan, you dumbass. _

The ride is over quickly. They pull Arthur off the horse and throw him on the ground, tearing the sack off his head. He blinks as his eyes adjust to the afternoon sunlight, slowly taking everything in. He's surrounded by a group of about a dozen men, all examining him like he's a piece of fresh meat. In the center of it all stands a lady, probably the leader from the way the others look to her. She's nearly as tall as Arthur, sorta stick-like, with one too many knives attached to her belt. 

_ And she's butt ugly, _ Arthur thinks, practically growling at her through the gag.

“Well, well, well…” she says, tilting her head to match Arthur's gaze. “My boys here tell me you caused us a damn lotta trouble. Now is that true?”

_ Damn right. _ He can't speak so he settles on fixing her with a dark glare.

The woman coos, kneeling down and scratching at Arthur's jaw with a single finger. 

“Aww, little wolf's got some fight in 'im, huh?” He tries to turn his head away from her touch, but she grasps his chin with surprising strength for someone of her frame. He can feel her nails tearing through his skin, and her expression darkens into something more severe. “Don't you worry, kid. That boyish anger you got won't last long with what I'm gonna do to you.”

Arthur freezes at her words, realizing for the first time that they wouldn't have brought him all the way here just to kill him. They were gonna have their fun first, and judging from the looks on their faces, it weren't gonna be as much fun for Arthur. He's scared, but unlike most of his life, he's not just scared for himself. He's scared for Dutch and Hosea, and what they're gonna do if he's gone, or worse if they find him and get shot down by these men. 

He wishes they'd save him anyway.

_ Selfish. _

He's drawn out of his thoughts as the leader cackles at his expression, releasing his chin and gesturing at two of her men.

“Go, put 'im in the cabin. I'll play with the sweet boy later,” she says, looking him up and down with a vile expression.

He feels a sickening weight settle in his stomach as he is dragged away.

 

***

 

As the sun started to set, Hosea began to worry. Arthur was a young man, angry and undisciplined, but if he had learned one thing, it was to warn either himself or Dutch if he was going to stay out after dark. But today, Hosea had woken to find his bedroll empty, without even a note saying where he was going. Not unusual... but that paired with the fact that it had been a whole day… he decided to mention it to Dutch.

“You have any idea where Arthur is, Dutch?”

Dutch immediately sighs and answers, leading him to believe the same thing had been on his mind.

“Not a damn clue.”

“Maybe he went to town? Starting some trouble in the saloon, no doubt,” he jokes, trying to dislodge the nervous weight in his stomach. Dutch only hums, his hands on hips and brow furrowed, lost in thought.

“...You think he's okay, Dutch?” Hosea says, finally voicing his concerns. Dutch snaps out of his trance, stepping closer to cup his hands on each side of Hosea's face.

“Arthur is tough, Hosea, you know he can deal with any trouble he may come across.” His soothing voice, which normally works wonders, does nothing to still his nervousness.

“All I'm saying is it wouldn't hurt to look,” He says, taking Dutch's hands in his own, tracing along his thumb with his fingers. 

“You know what happened last time!” He adds with an ounce of warning.

“I know what happened last time,” Dutch agrees, a slight chuckle to his voice.

“It wouldn't hurt.” Hosea reminds him, planting a kiss on his knuckles, fixing him with the most pleading look he could. Dutch sighs, seeing the plain concern on his lover's face.

“You're supposed to swindle the rich folk, not me,” he says, dropping Hosea's hands and heading over to his horse. 

“We’ll check the town first. Mount up.”

 

***

 

They arrive at town an hour after sunset, the street filled with people heading to the bar or making their way home. They dismount at a hitching post, Dutch pausing to help Hosea off his horse. He’s already planted a charming smile on his face, and Hosea can tell he won't need any help as he walks up to two slightly tipsy men chatting outside the saloon. 

“Pardon me, sir, but have you by any chance seen a tough young man ‘round here, ‘bout this tall, dirty blonde hair, looks like he just walked out a bar fight?”

To Hosea's surprise, one of the men nods. “Certainly so, sir. He went inside that there shop when some young feller took 'is horse and went off over round that way,” he says, pointing down the North road. “The feller you're talkin’ ‘bout took off after ‘im.”

“Why thank you for your information, sir, it was most helpful,” Dutch said, tipping his hat.

“Anytime.” The man raises a hand in goodbye as Dutch and Hosea walk back to their horses.

“I told you, Hosea, Arthur ain't in trouble, he just lost his horse. He's probably on his way back to camp already.”

“I dunno, Dutch. I just… I got a bad feeling is all.”

Dutch puts a hand on his shoulder as they reach the hitching post. “He'll be fine, Hosea, he can deal with one man with no trouble, you know that.”

“I wouldn't be so sure, Dutch. You know our boy likes to get himself into trouble,”

“Hosea, I love you dearly, but you worry too much. If Arthur ain't got his horse then he's walking back and if he did then he's probably beating the shit out of the man that took her. You know how much he loves that horse,”

“I know,” Hosea says, looking off to the side. “But I'd still feel better if we took a look. We could give him a ride back if nothing else.”

Dutch sighs, looking exasperated. “If you insist.”

They mount up and head down the North Road. It's not long before the road forks in two and Dutch turns down the left side saying, “We’ll try this one first.”

As they round the edge of the plateau, Dutch's compliant demeanor quickly turns into something calculating and cold. Four dead bodies litter the ground, all seemingly killed by gunfire. But that doesn't draw Dutch's attention nearly as much as what's laying directly in the center of the road.

“Arthur's hat…” he mutters under his breath as he dismounts. He picks up the hat as Hosea comes up next to him.

“Still think he's ‘just fine,’ Dutch?” Hosea says, a bitterly sarcastic lilt to his tone.

“Shut up,” Dutch mutters, examining the road around them. Last night's rain had cleared most of the tracks away, except for some horse prints and wagon trail headed further North. “These tracks look fairly recent. We follow them.”

They both share a worried glance as they mount up, hands kept dangerously close to their holsters.

 

***

 

Arthur's head is beginning to pound with how many times the man guarding him had hit him 'for insolence.’ It was amazing how much of a pain in the ass he could be while gagged and bound to a chair. He had even almost managed to escape, pulling one of his wrists free of his bindings, leaving it chafed and bleeding. Unfortunately one of the men had found him and he'd been rebound and given a guard. He's starting to think he might've been the one Arthur kicked in the balls. He can see that it's dark outside through the cracks in the wood of the cabin, and he's beginning to be truly frightened.

_ Why didn't I tell Dutch and Hosea where I was going? Are they gonna be able to find me? Do they even know something's wrong? _

His mind's rambling is suddenly cut to a close as the door in front of him swings open.

“Why, hello, pet.”

It's the lady from before. The leader of this gang of misfits and assholes. She eyes Arthur eagerly, walking over and leaning over to deeply inhale at his neck. Her breath smells of whiskey. 

“Mm. It's playtime…” she whispers into his ear, simultaneously disgusting and frightening Arthur. His fists tighten up in his bonds as he prepares for whatever's about to happen.

The woman slowly walks to the back of the room, each click of her heels making Arthur's heart skip a beat. He wishes he could see what she was doing.

“My boys told me you tried to escape!” she says suddenly, making Arthur jump in his seat. She tuts. Arthur hears the footsteps stop somewhere to his left, the only sound being the laughter of the men from outside, seeping in through the walls.

_ No one here cares about what's about to happen to me. _

Arthur's entire body jerks and stills as he feels a knife at his throat. He hadn't heard her walk over.

“Now we have rules here, little wolf. My rules. And little boys who don't listen to them…” she trails the knife down until it's at the edge of his collar, breathing into his ear. “...Well, those little boys are naughty. Do you know what I do to naughty little boys?” She steps around to the front of Arthur, keeping the point of the knife at Arthur's collar.

“Whatever. I. Want.” She flicks the blade down, cutting through the top two buttons of Arthur's shirt, blade barely skimming the edge of his skin. She leans over Arthur to look him in eyes, licking her lips as he looks at her fearfully. Her resounding chuckle is the only sound in the room. Arthur briefly wonders what happened to the men outside until-

**BANG!**

Blood and brains splatter over Arthur's face and chest as the woman falls on top of him, half of her head blown clean off.

Arthur looks up to see-

_ Dutch. Thank god. _

The man looks like the devil himself, face twisted in righteous anger, his gun still smoking from the shot. He slowly lowers the gun as Hosea suddenly appears beside him, pushing him aside in his rush to get to Arthur.

“Arthur! Are you okay, my boy?” he asks, pushing the woman off of him and quickly scanning him for injuries. Arthur nods, shakily. Dutch comes up beside them and pulls out a knife, working on freeing Arthur from his bonds.

“You're alright now, son, we've got you now. We're gonna get you out of here,” Dutch says, softly calming Arthur with his words of comfort and encouragement as he works at the ropes tying him to the chair. Hosea unties Arthur's gag, immediately kissing the top of his forehead. 

“I'm alright. I'm alright.” Arthur mutters, unsure if it's for their sake or his. As soon as the last rope is cut, he surges forward, burying Dutch and Hosea in a warm embrace, both men seemingly uncaring that he's smothered them in blood and gore.

“You're okay now, son, we've got you,” Dutch says, rubbing soothing circles on Arthur's back as Hosea plants another kiss to his temple.

“Can you walk, Arthur?” Hosea asks. Arthur nods, feeling drained and anxious, but ultimately unharmed.

“Alright then, come on,” Dutch says, helping Arthur stand anyway, and leading him out the door with a hand to his back.

“Let's get you home, son.”


	2. Little Wolf: Part II (Young! Van Der Linde Gang)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by TumbleSnout! 
> 
> "You know that trick they pull in the movies where they shoot the rope on the noose? I was wondering if you could have young Arthur get nabbed by Pinkertons or a rival gang, nearly hung and be to the point of passing out when Dutch and Hosea pull up and save his ass again?"
> 
> *VIOLENCE TW*

Arthur's ready. He knows he's ready. Dutch and Hosea have been preparing him for this for the past year, and yet they still refuse to let him rob a stagecoach on his own. He's older and smarter now, besides, how hard can it be to point a gun at someone and threaten them? He'd smothered his anger for a while, but now it was too damn much. He'd been tracking stagecoaches for weeks, waiting for a moment when he could sneak out of camp and hit a target. This morning they had been too busy planning a robbery to pay attention to what Arthur was doing, so he had left camp and made his way here, to wait for the stagecoach he’d heard would pass right through this area. It was a good coach, unguarded, but with a fair bit of cash. The only downside is that it's a bit too close to town, and by extension, the law for comfort. He would have to be quick. He pulls up his bandana and unholsters his gun, hiding with his horse in the thick foliage of the forest that surrounds this road.

It's not long before he hears the telltale sound of horses and wheels bouncing over the rocks of the road. His heart beats fast and loud in a mix of excitement and nervousness, hoping they don't see him as it draws closer and closer until he sees it coming up on his right. 

“Stop the coach!” He hollers, eagerly clicking his heels against his horse to get her to surge forward, aiming his gun at the driver.

_ Aw, shit. _

He realizes his mistake as soon as he exits the forest. If he'd have waited for a second longer he would have seen the four armed guards, following the coach closely. They already have pulled their guns alerted because of his call.  _ Shut your damn mouth next time, Arthur,  _ he thinks. He moves his aim toward the guards as they start shooting at him, barely grazing him and his horse. He manages to twist his horse’s reins fast enough that she rides in front of the coach, narrowly avoiding a collision. The coach blocks most of the bullets, but they still fire at Arthur from both sides, leaving him unable to escape into the woods as he'd hoped. The guards advance on him, splitting to each side of the coach. He manages to hit one on the left. Dead, he falls off his horse, slowing down the other one on that side, but a guard rides up from the right, and there's nothing in between him and Arthur. He fires, and Arthur feels a violent burning sensation in his right arm, and on instinct, he drops his gun.

_ Shit, shit, SHIT- _

He has no other choice now than to try and ride back into the woods to his left, struggling to pull his rifle from his horse's saddle with his good arm. Unfortunately for him, the path off the road to his left has a distinct drop, and his horse panics and stops, and in the amount of time it takes for him to take out his rifle, someone grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him to the ground.

“Don't you do nothin’ stupid now, boy, y'hear?” says the guard that pulled him off his horse, his gun now trained directly in between Arthur's eyes. He looks young, maybe early twenties, not much older than Arthur. Arthur hears the stagecoach continue on behind him, but the two remaining sets of horses stop.

“Come on, McKinney, shoot the boy and let's go.”

McKinney pauses at the order, looking back at Arthur. His sees the panic in Arthur's eyes and his gaze softens into something akin to pity.

“‘e's just a kid,” he says, his voice faltering just like the aim on his gun. Arthur takes the chance and charges him, knocking him to the ground as the gun flies out of his hand. 

“Goddamn! Feisty bastard ain't he?” He hears one of the guards behind him say, bursting into laughter. Arthur ignores him and dives for the gun, but McKinney pushes him over and straddles him, landing a right hook to his eye that sends him reeling. Arthur elbows him in the stomach to dislodge him, taking another couple hits in the process, but it loosens his grip enough for Arthur to shove him off, once again diving for the gun. As soon as Arthur's fingers touch the barrel, a boot lands on his hand and digs in, making him grit his teeth in pain. He hadn't noticed one of the other guards, an older man with a big mustache, coming up behind him. He looks down at Arthur and Arthur recognizes him as the man that shot him.

“Fun's over, kid,” is the last thing he hears before the man kicks him in the face and he blacks out.

 

***

 

He wakes up, head pounding, the gunshot wound in his arm burning in pain,  regretting every decision he's ever made, and every time he had ignored something Dutch or Hosea had told him. Things like: “This isn't about your age, young man, it's dangerous for anyone to rob a coach on their own.” Or: “A job that's easy enough for one man ain't worth the trouble, so don't you go getting any ideas now, son.”

_ Lord, why don't I listen? _

He opens his eyes with a start as the ground jerks beneath him, and he realizes abruptly that he's in a locked jail coach. Four armed men ride beside the coach, two on each side, and one other man drives it. They're dressed fancy, all french dress shirts, and polished spurs.  _ Not from ‘round here. _ As Arthur's vision adjusts to the bright noon sun, he notices the badge proudly affixed to each of their chests, his stomach sinking as he reads the transcription. 

_ Pinkertons. _

_ There ain't no way outta this one _ .  _ I'm injured and bleedin’. Cuffed, _ he realizes as he tugs at the bonds holding his wrists together. _ Locked in a coach and surrounded by five Pinkertons with their guns cocked an’ loaded. No one in their right mind would try an’ get outta this, ‘less they wanted a bullet in the head. Might not even be a bad idea. Who knows what these fellers are gonna try an’ do to me. _

He's not looking forward to finding out, but he gladly counts the time until it happens, watching the land pass by as they drive for another couple hours. He says something a few times, mostly commenting on how goddamn ugly they all are, but they don't respond and Arthur is left with no vent for his anger and fear. They're crossing a large plain, all dusty and dry with nothing but a few trees and shrubs around when the coach comes to a halt.

_ Why'd they stop here? _

The driver makes a motion with his hand and the rest dismount, two of them standing next to the doors of the coach, guns trained on Arthur, the other two unlocking it to grab Arthur and pull him out. They drag him away from the coach and towards one of the trees, turning him around and shoving him to his knees and holding him there. In front of him stand the two men with guns and the driver, who simply looks at Arthur, studying him, head tilted, and Arthur can't help but feel a little off-put by the calm in his expression.

“What?” He says gruffly, trying to make himself seem tough.

The man smiles at him but it doesn't reach his eyes. “You are Arthur Morgan, correct?”

“Who?” The slap to his face comes quicker than expected from the seemingly polite man. It stings more than it should, from all the times Arthur's been hit there before today, but it's not nearly enough to make him talk.

“Don't play games with me, boy. I need information from you and I will do whatever is necessary to get it,” he says, the same creepy smile on his face.

“Go screw yourself.”

He sighs, seeming almost disappointed. “Alright then. Boys? Loosen his tongue.” The two men beside him surge into action, one of them grabbing his arm directly by the gunshot wound and digging his fingers into it, putting the other hand in  Arthur's hair to hold his head still. He smiles as Arthur grits his teeth at the pain. The other one, a man with a thin scar along his cheekbone pulls out a knife, sliding it lightly along his lower lip, leaving a trail of blood behind. It's meant to scare him, Arthur knows that, and he can't help but feel ashamed that it's working.

“I want to know the location of Mr. Van Der Linde and Mr. Matthews,” the Pinkerton says, watching the proceedings with a neutral expression. Arthur glares at the man, worried his voice will shake if he says anything. The head Pinkerton nods to the one with the scar, who grabs Arthur's jaw and pries it open, pressing the knife against his tongue hard enough that it cuts with any movement.

“You move your tongue or you lose it, boy. My patience is wearing thin.” Arthur knows then that the only reason they’re keeping him alive is so he'll give them information, but he'll be damned before he tells them anything about where Dutch or Hosea are. Knowing that it's the dumbest idea he's ever had, he surges forward and bites down on the knife hard, biting the man's fingers with it, crying out when it slices into the inside of his cheek, his mouth filling with both the man's blood and his own. The man holding the knife screams, pulling his fingers away, spurting blood that Arthur can taste on his lips. He lets the knife fall out of his mouth, wincing as cuts his lip once again. The guard beside him presses his fingers deeply into Arthur's wound, making him scream out in pain, but he counts it as worth it as he watches the man holding his deeply injured hand. The head Pinkerton seems deeply unaffected, only making a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl.

“Mr. Presly.” The man holding Arthur looks up at him.

“The sheriff told you where they nabbed Mr. Morgan from, correct?” He nods.

“So it wouldn't be bold of me to assume you could find his tracks and lead us back to his camp from thence?” Presly thinks for a moment, then answers in a gruff voice.

“Certainly, sir. Though it'd take time, maybe a day or so.”

The Pinkerton huffs and smiles, seeming honestly happy this time. “You hear that Mr. Morgan? I can take your life and the only thing I'll lose is a couple days progress. Now, I'm willing to take that deal, unless you have something else to offer?”

He hates him. He  _ hates _ him. He wants to piss on his face, shoot him in the lungs and watch him bleed out. He wants to cut out his tongue and make him choke to death on it. He wants to put the knife in his mouth and punch the end until it nails him into a tree, and then he wants to leave him there to bleed out and be food for the vultures.

But it doesn't matter that Arthur hates him because he still won. And now all Arthur has to decide is whether he's gonna die horribly or break his loyalty to Hosea and Dutch. It doesn't feel like much of a choice at all to him. He feels traitor tears start to fall as he glares at the man, blood freely flowing from his mouth.

“...Pity. Hang him, boys.”

Both of the men that had their guns trained on Arthur have to put them away to help Presly drag the kicking Arthur to his feet and onto a horse. One of them grabs a lasso and loops it over a branch of the tree, tying it into a makeshift noose. Arthur puts up enough of a fight that Presly has to get on the horse behind him in order to pull the noose over Arthur's neck before he dismounts, but as soon as it tightens Arthur stills, knowing any movement could mean life or death for him.

_ So this is how it ends. _

He tries to think of the good times. The first time he met his horse. The day Hosea and Dutch found him. The day Hosea taught him to read. The time Dutch caught him drawing and complimented his talent. But all he can think of is their faces when they find his lifeless body, swinging from a noose in the middle of nowhere. He realizes suddenly how terrified he is to die, and suddenly he can barely breathe although the noose still hasn't tightened. He doesn't wanna die, especially not like this, all alone, without either of people he loves the most.

He drops. 

The noose is too low for it to break his neck, but he feels it twist into his skin, likely bruising and drawing blood, cutting off his airflow. He gasps, trying to breathe through the pain, but the noose is too tight and his lungs are empty and burning, uselessly working to suck in air that he can't get. He kicks, he's not sure why, maybe it's just cause he a fighter or maybe he's just panicking, but it does nothing. He's helpless. He's dying. His eyes are blurry with tears as he stops moving, his limbs growing heavier by the second. He's sure any of his next breaths will be his last, so he cherishes them, however, empty they may be, dragging his lungs open as far as he can-

-and suddenly, he can breathe. He feels distant as he hears his body hit the ground, unable to feel the pain. He can hear gunfire all around him, echoing through his skull, looking up to see half of the noose hanging from the tree, the other half still around his neck, still too tight to get enough air. He tries to pull it off his neck so he can breathe, but the cuffs are still on and too tight to escape, so he stays on the ground, struggling and gasping for air until he feels a hand on his back and suddenly the noose is gone.

“Arthur! Arthur, can you hear me, son? Answer me!”

“Goddammit, Dutch, let the boy breathe!”

As he slowly regains his breath, he can feel two sets of hand on him one hand cupping his cheek and petting his hair, another resting over his lungs, rising and falling with his breath. He looks up and silently thanks God for the two men above him.

Both Dutch and Hosea look worried as hell. Dutch looks like he’s struggling not to ask Arthur if he’s okay over and over, and he can't seem to figure out where to settle his hands, moving from caressing his cheek to petting his hair, to checking each of his wounds, and back again. Hosea, on the other hand, seems almost too still, his face set like stone as he stares unblinkingly at his hand, watching as it starts to rise and fall steadily as Arthur's lungs fill again.

“Hey,” Arthur rasps, sounding less like a man and more like a pile of sentient dust.

“Hey,” Dutch replies, voice cracking. Arthur isn't sure if he's out of it from lack of air or if those are actually tears in Dutch's eyes.

“You gotta stop goin’ and getting yourself in trouble, Arthur,” Hosea says, seemingly satisfied that Arthur is breathing healthily. Arthur shrugs, wincing as it hurts the wound in his arm.

“You look a mess,” Hosea says, examining each of Arthur's wounds.

“Thanks,” He rasps as Dutch puts a hand on his back to help him sit up.

“You have medical supplies in your saddlebag, don't you, Hosea?”

“Sure do, Dutch,” he says with a nod, immediately going to fetch it.

“Don't you  _ ever  _ pull some shit like that again, you hear me?” Dutch says, suddenly sounding angry as all hell. Arthur nods slowly, too tired to sit up,  so he leans back against Dutch's chest, letting the older man support him.

“I'm a fool, I know,” he rasps, letting his head fall onto Dutch's shoulder. He can feel Dutch's whole body lose it's tension as he realizes just how injured Arthur is.

“You worried the hell out of us, Arthur,” he says, kissing the top of Arthur's head, holding him as tightly as he can without hurting him. Hosea comes back with the satchel, opening it and taking out his supplies, immediately getting to work on Arthur's arm.

“You two should get comfortable, this should take a while.” 

“Thanks, Hosea.”

“Of course, Arthur.” He settles down as Hosea gets to work, wincing through the pain as Dutch pets his hair, both of them taking turns whispering words of encouragement, and the occasional word of annoyance that he ran off in the first place. He chuckles at those, knowing that they mean well, that they're just trying to keep him safe. He thinks about how much like a family they've become, however absurd it is that Dutch acts like his father even though he's only five years older. Whatever the case, they're all watching each other's back, so he doesn't mind slipping off into unconsciousness in Dutch's arms, knowing that whenever they're with him, everything'll probably end up alright.


	3. Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary (Young! Van Der Linde Gang)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by PlushPetTony!
> 
> "Maybe Dutch trying to cheer younger Arthur up after he and Mary split up? Maybe Arthur needs someone to talk to and a shoulder to cry on but is too stubborn to admit it?"

Dutch stands at the edge of his tent, smoking a cigar and watching the activity around camp. Hosea sits with his feet on a table, teaching young John how to play dominoes. Miss Grimshaw scolds Mary-Beth for having her nose in a book instead of up against a washboard. Dutch smiles to himself as he blows out the smoke of his cigar. He can't help but feel proud of the community he's created here. It gives him a sense of calm and confidence to know he had a part in this. He makes a point to pause every once in awhile to remind himself of all he's accomplished, all  _ they _ have accomplished, every one of the men and women here. He cherishes the moment of contentment... but it ends as soon as it began.

Arthur rides into camp with the same face he wears when he's about to kill a man. He dismounts and starts directly toward his tent. Dutch and Hosea have been talking about what to do about the way he's been acting after that Mary girl had left him. Hosea had said Dutch should talk to him, give him one of his speeches, and Dutch had wholeheartedly disagreed, stating that Hosea was clearly Arthur's favorite. Dutch liked to think that the conversation had ended in a stalemate. He had been dancing around the subject lately, but he thinks he might have to confront it soon as John, too dumb to know better, heads over to greet Arthur.

“Hey, Arthur, I-”

“John, I would rather eat shit than deal with you right now, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”

Dutch watches as John physically recoils from the words, immediately spitting out an angry response. “Yeah, well fuck you too then!” 

As the argument quickly escalates, Dutch sighs and stamps out his cigar, waving his hand dismissively at Hosea, who is giving him a very pointed look.

“BOYS!” Dutch shouts, both of them instantly falling quiet to listen to him. 

“John, why don't you go finish learning how to play from the master himself?” he says, looking to Hosea who immediately nods, gesturing at John to join him.

“Come on, Johnny, we'll get you good enough to trick ol’ Dutch out of his money.” John looks a little disappointed to be shunted off to the side, but Dutch'll have to make it up to him later, Hosea too. He can't thank God enough for that man's existence. 

He turns back to Arthur.

“As for you, young man, I'd like you to ride with me,” he says, swinging an arm over Arthur's shoulders to lead him back to his horse. Arthur grumbles but doesn't resist.

“Where we goin’?”

“Out. I've got a job for us,” he lies easily, knowing Arthur won't follow him if he says that they were going out to have a talk.

“At this hour?” he complains as they mount their horses.

“Some jobs are better accomplished in the cover of night, Arthur.”

“Jobs like sleepin’, for instance.”

“Watch your tone, Arthur.”

Arthur practically growls at that but he keeps quiet. They ride in silence for about a minute before Dutch breaks it with careful words.

“I heard you been up to quite a bit of trouble, son.” 

“Well, we’re outlaws, ain't we? It's what we do.”

“We didn't become outlaws to spread chaos, Arthur, we are here to represent the heavenly ideal of a purer form of humanity! We are rebels against conformity and the savagery of those in the East, those men are the ones killin’ and thievin’ without good reason, not us!”

“Whatever you say, Dutch,” Arthur says with a scoff.

“Arthur I don’t know what's gotten into that head of yours, but your attitude as of late is out of line.”

“I ain't doin’ nothin.”

“I do believe John would disagree, judging from what happened back there.”

“It ain't my problem that John's a little shithead.”

“Arthur!” Dutch says in his leader voice, quickly losing the patience that he knows Hosea would've had if he'd done this instead of Dutch.  _ I am not letting that man con me into doing anything for the rest of my days- _

“Can we just get to where we're goin’, Dutch?” Arthur says, his words clipped and jaw set in anger.

“I am tryin’ to talk to you, boy!”

“Well maybe I don't wanna talk!”

“Look, son,” Dutch says, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to rein in his temper. “I know you were real serious about that girl but you can't-”

“God, do you never shut your damn mouth?!” Arthur shouts, immediately snapping at the mention of Mary.  “Either tell me where the hell this place is and I'll meet you there or I'm goin’ back to camp an’ you can bring Tilly with you for all I care.” He pulls his horse to a stop, Dutch turning his around and trying to come up with something to say that'll keep Arthur here without admitting that the job is fake, but Arthur catches the look on his face and immediately calls his bluff.

“There ain't even a job is there? You just dragged me out here to give me a goddamn talking-to! You know what, Dutch, just cause you found me when I was a kid don't mean you're my father so how 'bout you back the hell off?!”

That one hits Dutch harder than he'd like to admit. He took a certain amount of pride in the way he'd raised his sons, and although he knew he didn't do quite as good of a job as Hosea, he'd tried his damn best to keep not only them but everyone at camp safe and happy. Hell, the only reason he'd come out here was to make sure Arthur was okay.

Arthur watches as Dutch's face suddenly drops, the man uncharacteristically quiet. He's decidedly sure that he doesn't like the way his stomach twists in guilt, but his mouth keeps moving anyway, Arthur gaining some sick glee in finally getting the chance to unload all of the emotions and thoughts he’d locked up inside.

“You ain't even done a good job, anyway! I mean, hell, look at us, runnin’ around, thievin’, killin’! I bet everyone 'round town is jealous thinkin’ bout how well raised we must be! 'Bout how we must be on some kinda heavenly quest against the fellers in the East! You know, I reckon that's why they all look at us and lock their doors. No one sees us and thinks good things, Dutch. We're dangerous and twisted and we can't be trusted, and- and-”

He hadn't realized he'd started to copy Mary's words until his heart twinged in sadness, the same way he hadn't noticed he'd started crying until his sentence is interrupted by a choked sob.

Dutch shoves away his anger at his son's words, knowing he likely didn't mean any of it.

“Oh, son,” he says with pity on his face, leading his horse up beside Arthur's to pull him into a hug as well as he could while still mounted.

“Come on, son, you know that ain't true, shh, come on now…” Arthur chokes down another sob, trying to pull away from Dutch out of shame, but Dutch holds him steady against his chest. Arthur's face burns in embarrassment, thinking about how he's an adult, sobbing like a child, but Dutch held firm and he finds he doesn't have enough determination to rival the older man's, so he gives in, balling his fists into Dutch's vest and sinking into his arms, letting himself cry for the first time since Mary left. He sobs hard into Dutch's chest barely hearing Dutch's words, instead hearing every hateful thing Mary and her father had said about him before he'd been thrown out.

The bout of tears lasts for a few minutes, Arthur's muffled sobbing eventually settling down into softer sniffles as Dutch continually mutters meaningless words of comfort, holding him steady against his chest, ignoring the pain beginning to gather in his back from leaning off his horse like this in favor of staying there for Arthur. 

Only when Arthur's voice is steady enough to awkwardly ask Dutch to let him go does he let Arthur pull away. He watches as Arthur wipes his nose on his sleeve, eyes unable to meet Dutch's.

“Arthur, look at me.” Arthur briefly glances up at Dutch but almost instantly shies away again, staring at the ground instead.

“Arthur-” Dutch repeats, leaning over to grab Arthur's chin and tug it towards him, not continuing his sentence until Arthur meets his eyes. “There ain't no shame in cryin’, and there ain't no man kinder, stronger, or more honorable than you. Don't you go lettin’ anyone tell you anything different, especially if that anyone is you. If you ain't got faith in yourself than no one else is gonna have any faith in you. You hear me?”

Arthur nods as well as he can with his chin still in Dutch's hold before Dutch lets go, firmly grasping his shoulder. 

“If you need to talk don't hesitate to come to one of Arthur. Any one of the men or women at camp have got a shoulder to cry on.” Arthur nods, sniffling. “Well. Maybe not Miss Grimshaw,” Dutch adds the lighthearted gab in an attempt to lighten up the mood, successfully coaxing a small smile onto Arthur's face.

“Yeah she don't seem like the comforting type, do she?”

“No she does not, but I am sure that she will not hesitate to whip your ass if you go and cause any more trouble, so I'd advise against it.”

“Yes, Dutch.” Arthur mutters, wiping his nose on his sleeve once more. Dutch pats his shoulder once before turning back towards camp, Arthur following in his stead.

“So there weren't no job, huh?”

“Course not, Arthur. I'm just doin’ my best to watch out for you.” The guilt in Arthur's stomach rumbles up again, and he looks off to the side for a minute.

“You ain't doin’ too bad of a job. You and Hosea,” Arthur says, trying his best to take back his previous words.

“I know,” Dutch says simply, flashing a soft smile at Arthur.

The corner of Arthur's mouth quirks up with a hum, both of them lapsing into silence as they ride back into camp, side by side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Request in the comments below or on my tumblr [@gunderlinde!](https://gunderlinde.tumblr.com)  
> (Requests currently closed!)


	4. Nervous Ticks (Young! Van Der Linde Gang)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by Bluesexual!
> 
> "Young Arthur gets sick (not tb lol) and the camp takes care of him? Or hurt or something. Maybe have young John around acting all worried about his big brother. "

John flinches in surprise as the stick he’s fiddling with snaps in half, tossing it to the ground with a sigh. Hosea and Dutch were both at camp right now, and he wasn’t allowed to rob without them yet, so he‘d had nothing to do all day but wander around, looking for something to occupy his attention, until he catches wind of an argument between Arthur and Dutch.

“Arthur, will you sit your ass down.”

“I’m fine, Dutch, I can-”

“Shut up and sit!” The words remind John of someone scolding a stubborn dog, and the way Arthur stares at Dutch blankly does too. He snickers, but now that he’s looking, Arthur does look pretty bad. His face is pale, his eyes watery, his voice hoarse and punctuated by sniffs and coughs.  _ Is he okay? _

John walks over just as Arthur erupts into a coughing fit.

“You can’t aim if you’re gonna start hacking every other minute, Arthur. This house ain’t goin’ anywhere, you’ll rob it later.”

“I’m-” Arthur sneezes. “-fine.” Dutch looks at Arthur with the face of a man who’s just about done with this shit.

“What’s wrong with Arthur?” says John, both men briefly looking down at him in surprise, having not noticed him walk over.

“He’s sick,” Dutch says at the same time Arthur stubbornly says, “Nothing.” John looks between them both, lingering on Arthur as he sways a bit. Dutch really didn’t know how to turn off the charm and be blunt sometimes. John decides to help.

“Arthur, you’re full of shit.”

Arthur scoffs at him while Dutch snickers behind them.

“Watch your language, kid,” says Arthur, John’s eyes immediately narrowing.

“I ain’t a kid anymore!”

“We are not doing this either,” Dutch quickly interrupts as he watches both boys puff up for a fight. “John, go ask Hosea to make Arthur some of that tea of his.”

John’s getting really annoyed at being shoved off to the side constantly, but he glances once at Arthur’s sniffling and weak form and obeys. He’s barely even turned around before Arthur starts telling Dutch that he doesn’t need any medicinal tea, he’s  _ fine- _

Hosea isn’t by his tent or the poker table so he decides to check the sunny spot that he knows Hosea likes to read at. Sure enough, he sits against the plateau there, a book open in his lap. He looks up as John’s shadow blocks the light.

“Arthur’s being stupid again,” John says in way of greeting. Hosea snorts.

“Is he now?”

“He’s sick and he won’t own up to it. Dutch said you should make him tea.” Hosea looks up at that, closing his book and walking back toward camp. 

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Everythin’,” says John. He thinks of Arthur’s coughing, and the way his body kept swaying as if he was struggling to stay standing, the way his face looked like death. He taps his fingers against his thigh to try to get rid of the anxiety he feels when he remembers the kids on the street that died with that face. “...He looked pretty bad.”

When they walk into camp, Hosea starts pulling herbs out of his things, glancing across the way towards Arthur every so often, finally putting the herbs in a mug with some hot water and handing it to John.

“Go on.” John takes the cup and heads over to Dutch, Hosea following closely behind. Dutch at this point has gotten Arthur into his cot, but he still refuses to lie down. They both look over as Hosea and John approach, Dutch smiling when he sees the cup in John’s hand.

“Thank you, John,” he says, taking it and ruffling his hair. John smiles at the appreciation, but it quickly falls as Arthur erupts into another fit of coughs. Unable to speak, he simply waves his hand dismissively as Dutch tries to hand him the cup. _ Why’s he gotta be so damn stubborn anyway? _

“Arthur, you need rest,” Hosea says from behind John, the corner of his mouth quirking into a frown as he looks at Arthur. Arthur finally stops coughing. He looks up to see all three men staring at him, Dutch stubbornly holding out the tea, Hosea frowning at him with a disapproving look and John, arms crossed and fingers tapping anxiously. He gives in with a shaky sigh and a sniff, taking the tea and lying back against the cot.  _ Finally. _

“Thank you, Arthur,” Dutch says, his shoulder dropping their tension as Arthur sips the tea. 

“Now get some rest,” he adds, rubbing Arthur’s shoulder and heading towards his tent.

“You tell me when you run out of that, okay, my boy?” Hosea says, following Dutch.

John hesitates, looking at Arthur’s sickly expression.  _ If I leave and he doesn’t wake up… _

He doesn’t bother to finish the rest of the sentence, just stares at Arthur. Arthur stares back for a solid thirty seconds, the only movement being that of John’s tapping fingers and the only sound being Arthur’s intermittent coughs. Just as John is getting uncomfortable under Arthur’s glare, he speaks up.

“Did you want somethin’, John?” he says, the words sounding less sincere and more like an invitation to go away.

“No,” John mutters, unmoving. Arthur makes a gesture away from his tent with sarcastic amazement on his face.

“Well, then you could go, couldn’t ya?” He says, taking a sip of the tea. John shuffles his feet, tapping his fingers restlessly. He looks at the ground as Arthur gives an exaggerated sigh.

“Fine. What’s wrong?” He asks, setting down the tea.

“Nothin’,” John says, stubbornly staring at the ground.

“Nothin’,” Arthur echoes jokingly, his eyes catching on John’s tapping fingers. “You were just plannin’ on standin’ there all day for no reason, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” John says, sweat forming on his brow. Arthur watches John stare at the ground for a bit before he sighs and rolls his eyes.

“At least sit down, will ya? It’s intimidatin’, you just standin’ there.”

John finally looks up as Arthur moves his legs so John can sit with him on the cot. He plops down next to Arthur, twisting his mouth from a worried frown into a smirk.

“I’m intimidatin’, huh?” Arthur immediately scoffs.

“‘Bout as intimidatin’ as a rabbit.”

“But you just said-”

“I didn’t say shit.”

“Yes, you did!”

“Did not.”

“Did too!” 

Arthur playfully shoves John’s shoulder, both of them giggling like fools. They fall into awkward silence as Arthur’s laughter is cut off by another round of coughs. Arthur moves to ruffle John’s hair but he dodges out of the way, leaving Arthur to pat his knee instead.

“I’ll be fine, Johnny.” John grunts softly, staring at the ground for a moment. His tapping fingers finally still as he shoots a half-hearted glare at Arthur.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you what, Johnny?”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“I ain’t the one that started talking-”

Hosea and Dutch watch as the two boys start arguing again, Dutch chuckling when John sticks his tongue out at Arthur, both men falling into laughter when the ever-stoic Arthur quickly follows suit. Hosea leans against Dutch’s shoulder as their laughter dies down, looking at the two boys with a smile.

“Stop adopting kids.” Dutch chuckles once again at the way the words mismatch the fondness in his eyes. He slings an arm around Hosea’s shoulder and looks at him with a cheeky smile. 

“I’m gonna find another one just cause you said that.”

“ _ Don’t,”  _ Hosea says, meeting his eyes with a suddenly serious expression. Dutch snickers and buries his nose in Hosea’s neck.

“No promises.” Both men look over as Arthur and John suddenly erupt into laughter, John keeling over and nearly falling off the bed.

“Besides, these two are alright, ain’t they?”


End file.
